


The Adventure Of The Retired Colourman (1897)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [168]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Army, Deception, Destiel - Freeform, Egypt, F/M, Gay Sex, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 18:33:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11538054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: As Great Britain suddenly finds itself facing the possibility of a confrontation with its new ally France, the theft of a document from a London house seems small beer in comparison. But with Sherlock on the case, criminals – of all shapes and sizes – had better watch out!





	The Adventure Of The Retired Colourman (1897)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aely](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aely/gifts).



> I am feeling both my age and the rapidity with which the English languages has evolved of late, as the subject of this title has now fallen from common usage. A colourman was usually anyone who sold paint, but in the Army it had a wider meaning of a person who supplied anything brightly coloured, such as uniforms.

It was one of those strange coincidences that our adventure with the Devil’s Foot, which began its life several millennia before in the land of the Pharaohs, was followed by two other cases that involved that same part of the world, many thousands of miles away. Fortunately neither took us to the area itself – I positively hate hot countries, and had found even the southern United States unbearable – but both were tied into events which, had they turned out otherwise, could have led to a very different ending to the Great War that everyone on the Continent of Europe then knew was coming, sooner or later.

This case began with the announcement that Mr. Ashland Lindberg, our arrival from the United States, was engaged to be married to Miss Joanna Harvelle. The news came as a shock to me, but not (of course) to Sherlock. I had thought that the two could not stand each other, as they were arguing more often than not, but it seemed that I had been mistaken. This happened in December of 'Ninety-Seven, and plans were begun for a wedding the following spring. It was those plans which, albeit indirectly, brought us our next case.

Neither Mr. Lindberg nor Miss Harvelle were at all religious, but our landlady made it clear that a church wedding was not negotiable as long as her future son-in-law required the continued use of various appendages. That, and Mr. Singer's pointed cleaning of his own gun at the table, seemed to have quickly decided matters. The nearby church of St. Cyprian’s was the chosen venue, and its vicar, the Reverend Augustus Montague, became a regular fixture at Baker Street that winter. One day just before Christmas, he brought a guest with him, a Miss Florence Mallilee, and asked if we would meet with her. We agreed, and she was shown up to our rooms.

Miss Mallilee was one of those ladies for whom the term ‘sprightly’ may have been invented. She was about fifty-five years of age, neatly-dressed and looked nervous at being in the famous fireside chair, but there was an air of determination about her. I was just thinking to myself that thankfully Sherlock was getting too old for women to simper at nowadays when she did just that, and immediately lost several points in my regard as a result.

“The dear Reverend urged me to tell you gentlemen all”, she said in a quiet voice. “But there is so little to tell. It just seems… odd.”

“The doctor and I undertake many investigations that fit just that description”, Sherlock smiled. “We consider almost any case, madam. Pray tell us what is troubling you.”

Thus prompted, the lady folded her hands in her lap and began.

“Every Sunday, after Morning Service, the Church Association holds a small Luncheon for some of the retired gentlemen and ladies living in the area”, she began. “It is normally quite restricted, as we only allow fourteen members at any one time, but recently a most polite elderly gentleman moved to the area – well, just over the border in Paddington - and he was recommended to our little group. His name is Mr. Aumary de Montfort, and he is a former colourman, having just retired from a company that was working for the British Army out in Egypt.”

A most interesting part of the world just then, as I knew from the daily papers. When De Lessups had built his great canal across the Isthmus of Suez, everyone had expected it to lead to a resurgence of French influence in that part of the world, which had caused nervousness in London despite the informal alliance between the two countries. However, France’s subsequent humiliation at the hands of Bismarck’s Prussia, coupled with the British buying out the Khedive’s stake in the canal, had combined to restore our influence there, much to the chagrin of Paris. There was any number of rumours as to how the French might try to regain the upper hand, though they had done nothing as yet.

“Do you happen to know exactly what Mr. de Montfort was doing in that part of the world?” I inquired.

“That is gentlemen’s business”, she said, colouring slightly. “A lady would never ask!”

I felt the reproof. Sherlock merely smiled.

“Something has happened with this gentleman?” he pressed gently. She blushed.

“It is really not my place”, she said. “I am only someone who serves him tea at the weekend. But when he first came to us, he was much happier. I think that he was glad to be back home in dear old England, and he did say that he had a comfortable pension and everything. But then there was the shooting.”

“Shooting?” I asked, surprised. She nodded.

“A gun that he was firing went off unexpectedly, and he had to have his arm put in a cast”, she said. “The police looked at it afterwards, and said that the mechanism was faulty.”

Sherlock looked at her shrewdly.

“You do not think that it was an accident?” he asked.

“I suppose it was if the police said so”, she said, clearly dubious. “But the incident seems to have depressed him for some reason, and he is not what he was.”

Sherlock looked at her shrewdly.

“There is something that you have not told us”, he said. “It is not just the change in manner that has worried you; that can happen to people for a whole variety of reasons. What else has happened, Miss Mallilee?”

I wondered for a minute if she was going to deny it – Sherlock had a way of seeing through people, and few enjoyed the experience – but she folded almost immediately.

“A foreign gentleman came to the vicarage asking questions about Mr. de Montfort”, she said. “Definitely French; my niece is learning the language at school for some inexplicable reason. I was arranging flowers for the church at the time, and overheard him.”

“What did he look like?” Sherlock asked. 

“Tall and thin”, she said. “I think he had something wrong with his leg, because he walked with a limp. And he had an eyeglass, too. Very affected, in my opinion.”

I smiled at her xenophobia.

“As I am sure you are well aware”, Sherlock said, “many cases that we investigate turn out to be something and nothing. The doctor does not publish those because, for some strange reason, people do not like to be bored when they read our adventures. It may be that this matter has a simple explanation; however, it intrigues me, and I am inclined to look further into it. If you leave us your address, I shall endeavour to keep you informed of my progress.”

“Thank you, sir”, she said.

+~+~+

Christmas that year was wonderful, as my little brother (he so hates me calling him that!) and his family came down to London. Sherlock arranged for them to put up at his brother Gaylord's latest hotel, Claridge’s (I should say in all fairness that the frequency with which the elder Holmes changed jobs was totally due to his organizational and cooking skills being so much in demand), and I got to see my family – my other family - every day. I had finished my work on the Norwood case from just over two years ago, which would be published in the “Strand” magazine in the New Year, and all seemed right with the world. I even got to kiss Sherlock under the mistletoe. And because I am a gentleman, I shall not state just where he was holding the mistletoe at the time. 

No. Use your imagination!

Sherlock and I had decided on a rather unusual choice of present to each other that year. We proposed to Mrs. Singer to fund the extension of our bathroom, which backed onto a little-used cupboard, and which would enable a separate shower unit to be fitted. Of course Sherlock with his resources insisted on funding the greater part of the exercise, and it could not be started until spring at the earliest, but I looked forward to using the larger room, even if it meant a few months of temporary discomfort. 

“I shall miss the old tub”, I said one day, as the two of us were soaking in it together, Sherlock between my legs as my cock nuzzled against his backside. 

“The new one is larger”, Sherlock said. “We shall be able to stretch out more. And relax more easily.”

I was feeling relaxed right now. We had just got back from seeing off Sammy, Jess and their brood at King's Cross, and I felt supremely happy. Especially with Sherlock grinding himself against my rapidly hardening cock.

“You are asking for it!” I muttered, kissing the back of his neck. 

“Are you sure that you are up to it?” he asked. “I mean, in a few weeks' time you will be full forty-six years old. Not quite ancient, but older people do have less energy, I know.”

I growled, and stopped his teasing by easing him up and onto my hard cock. He growled back at me, then surprised me by sinking straight down onto me in one swift movement. I gave him a love-bite for that, but then I rather lost focus as he quite literally dragged the orgasm out of me, like I was some sort of dildo with a human stuck on the other end. Had I not been several stages beyond nirvana, I might have objected. 

“Seems you can still perform to par, John”, he teased, leaning his head back and kissing me languidly before his hand joined mine in jerking him off to orgasm as well. Then he sank back into me, a blissed-out lump which I gently washed down with the flannel.

“I can go all night if necessary!” I boasted.

“Really?” he whispered, his voice loud in the silent steam of the bathroom. “Let's try that!”

And that night, the bastard woke me up every hour on the hour to demand sex. It was a sorry state the following day, and it did not help my mood that he seemed as bright and cheerful as he always was, once he was fully caffeinated. But even though I was totally shattered and sitting down was an action to only be undertaken with great caution and a soft cushion, I loved the man. 

Even if he was trying to kill me through sex!

+~+~+

In the celebration of the festive season and my brother's visit, I had almost forgotten about Miss Mallilee and her retired colourman. However, the case was brought back to my attention with a start in January when I read an article in the “Times” one January morning.

“Sherlock!” I exclaimed. “Listen to this!”

He looked up from his book.

“’A break-in has occurred at “Scarab End”, the London home of Mr. Aumary de Montfort, recently arrived to the Paddington area from Egypt’”, I read. “’Fortunately a passing policeman, Constable Tulloch, spotted that the front door was ajar and came to investigate, causing the thieves to flee through the back garden. Mr. de Montfort reports that nothing has apparently been taken, and investigations are ongoing.’”

“It seems that Miss Mallilee was correct”, Sherlock said. “Are you free to visit the scene of the crime today, John? I know that you have one call to make?”

“I am just checking in on young Mrs. Trevithick”, I said. “Her morning sickness is lasting a little longer than is usual, which is a little worrisome. But she actually lives in Paddington. We could go to see Mr. de Montfort afterwards, if that is acceptable?”

“Indeed”, he smiled. 

We were interrupted by a knock at the door, and Mrs. Singer entered. She looked distinctly annoyed. Sure enough, Mr. Bacchus Holmes was behind her. I groaned inwardly. The man had reluctantly been admitted back into our lives a couple of months before, when he had needed Sherlock's advice on a small case involving a government minister in a financial scandal. He still clearly disapproved of our relationship, and there was something of a wary truce between us all.

“Him!” Mrs. Harvelle snapped, glaring at the visitor before brushing past him and leaving.

“I am not exactly feeling the love here, Sherlock”, our visitor said testily. “I cannot stay long. That idiot Lord Peebles is on the verge of causing a minor crisis in the Lords, and the government needs me.”

“Do not let us keep you, then”, I said testily. 

Sherlock gave me a look of only mild reproof. 

“What do you want, Bacchus?” he asked coolly.

“You are holding a case for a Miss Florence Mallilee”, he said, “in regard to Mr. Aumary de Montfort.”

I was not even surprised that he knew about it.

“What of it?” Sherlock asked.

“It would be advisable for you to drop it”, his brother said.

“Not unless you give me a reason why I should turn down a client”, Sherlock said.

“She is not even paying you!” Mr. Bacchus Holmes said scornfully. “Let it go, Sherlock. This case goes deeper than even you are used to dealing with.”

Sherlock stared at him pointedly.

“If that was your only reason”, he said stiffly, “you will have to do better.”

“Fine!” his brother snapped. “Do not say that I did not try to warn you. I shall see myself out.”

He strode to the door, and was gone. I stared after him, feeling decidedly uneasy.

“John”, Sherlock said slowly, “if you feel uncomfortable about this…”

“Like Hell am I letting you face this alone, whatever it is!” I snorted. “I am getting my bag! And my gun!”

He smiled.

+~+~+

I did not know what to expect when we arrived at “Scarab End”, but the house in front of me was not it. I stared in astonishment.

“That”, I said firmly, “is not the property of a retired colourman! Not unless he is also a secret millionaire!”

Although Paddington was a mostly middle-class residential area around the Great Western Railway's terminus, it did possess a small number of secluded areas, and “Scarab End” lay in one of them. A quiet little cul-de-sac leading away from another rarely-used road, it consisted of only half a dozen houses, the last of which lay before us. The house itself was a standard family-sized affair, but the grounds were impressive, to say the least.

We presented our cards, and were shown up to the study of Mr. Aumary de Montfort. He was a fine elderly gentleman, and I noted the number of military-themed portraits around the room as we sat down with him.

“I hope that you will pardon the intrusion”, Sherlock began, “but we are here about the break-in last night.”

The old man raised an eyebrow at us.

“I was not aware that consulting detectives concerned themselves with such trivial matters as household burglaries”, he observed. 

“In light of where you have returned from of late, sir”, my friend said, “it may not be such a trivial matter.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“This is a secluded area”, Sherlock said, “and it seems rather coincidental that it was your house that was targeted. My concern is that the thieves may try again.”

“They will find little of value here”, the man scoffed. “And I am more than proficient with a weapon, even with my left hand.”

“That would be from your nephew?” Sherlock asked, to my surprise. The old man smiled.

“Your reputation does not do you an injustice”, he said. “Yes, Peter taught me.” He looked across at me. “Sir Peter de Montfort, commanding officer of the 2nd Dorsetshires, currently stationed in Egypt, doctor.”

“Ah”, I said. “The military connection.”

“I still own the military supplies company, Blackstone's, which is why I am able to afford a place like this, as I am sure you were wondering”, he smiled. “Peter kindly engaged my company to do some work in Egypt before I retired.”

“And someone thinks that you may have information about future events in that part of the world”, Sherlock said. 

“My brother did send me a letter, and he mentioned what he had planned”, the man admitted. “Naturally I have locked it away somewhere safe. I did tell Sergeant Winter about it, though.”

I groaned inwardly. It was just my luck that that obnoxious personage was involved in the case. 

“May we be allowed to see the letter?” Sherlock asked.

I thought that the colourman hesitated slightly, but he nodded and crossed to a writing desk, unlocked a draw with his key, and extracted a single sheet of paper. Sherlock read it, and a slow smile creased his features.

“I see”, he said, handing it back. “Well, it seems that we have no further business here at present. But take care, sir. We may be dealing with governments here, and as I am sure you well know, they can make most criminal organizations looked positively scrupulous!”

“I will take care”, the man smiled.

+~+~+

“What was in the letter?” I asked. “Anything of note?”

“His brother talked of plans to secure western Egypt, along the borders with the Ottoman Empire”, Sherlock said. “There is a large and mostly empty disputed area there, over six hundred miles between Benghazi and Alexandria, but securing the latter might strengthen the British presence in the approaches to the Canal.”

“Rather indiscreet of him”, I observed. “Letters can be easily intercepted. And is not that area technically part of the Ottoman Empire?”

“Remember that the family is descended from the same stock that gave us the great Earl Simon”, my friend said. “We should not underestimate them. Though I appreciate the irony.”

“What irony?” I asked, confused.

“The original de Montforts were French, yet Earl Simon ended up becoming quintessentially English”, Sherlock smiled. “History does so love to repeat itself!”

+~+~+

We returned to Baker Street, the case seemingly having come to a halt. A few days passed, and nothing much happened except for a sharp snowfall and equally sharp thaw, until one morning our breakfast was interrupted by two guests, neither of whom was welcome. Mr. Bacchus Holmes and Sergeant Winter. 

I really needed to order that catalogue on man-traps.

“This is a disaster, Sherlock!” the lounge-lizard stormed, pacing up and down the room. “It is all your fault.”

“How is that?” I demanded before Sherlock could speak. His brother scowled at me.

“You must have been seen going to that damn house, and they took the letter. The French know everything, damn it!

“Bacchus!”

Sherlock did not shout, but the anger in his voice caused his brother to freeze mid-step. My friend gestured to the chair, and the look on his face scared even me. Mr. Bacchus Holmes sat down, but was still frowning.

“That idiot de Montfort”, he said. “A police officer came to his house yesterday, and asked for a copy of the letter. Not the original, he was very clear to state; his bosses wanted to examine the content. The man wrote one out for him, and he took it. Except the visitor was a fake! Clearly a French agent!”

“Then clearly someone knew about the letter”, Sherlock said patiently. “Did Mr. de Montfort tell anybody about it?”

“No”, his brother scowled. “You and the doctor were the only ones who knew.”

“And Sergeant Winter here”, I put in. “Plus the constables he took with him to the house.”

“I only took Penfold”, the sergeant snapped. “And he's as loyal as the day is long.”

“The fake officer even had a letter signed by Winter here”, Mr. Bacchus Holmes moaned, “so he must at least know someone who works at the station. That letter, or at least the contents of it, must be in Paris by now.”

“Then you should be away dealing with the resultant political fallout”, Sherlock said mildly. “One can hardly blame Mr. de Montfort for believing an English policeman, especially when backed with a letter signed by a sergeant. Unless Mr. Winter here can remember signing something pushed in front of him without checking?”

The sergeant looked set to deny this, but suddenly went red.

“Sergeant?” the lounge-lizard snapped.

“Uh, Constable Graham, Penfold's friend”, he said dully. “He... asked me to sign a form just as I was leaving for a meeting yesterday morning. And he is not in today. He is, um, sick.”

Probably not as sick as you look now, I thought wryly. Sherlock smirked at me.

“Perhaps a visit to that man's house might be in order”, he said with a yawn. “I am expecting a client today, so I cannot help. Good day, gentlemen.”

Our two visitors hurried out, and were mercifully gone. 

“So they got the letter after all”, I said. “And Constable Graham is a traitor to his country.”

Sherlock smiled, then stood up and went to his writing-desk and jotted down something on a piece of paper. He then went to the door, opened it and called down to Miss Harvelle, who was presumably nearby, and gave it to her before returning to the table.

“Who is the client you are expecting?” I asked. “A new one?”

“Not exactly”, he said. “But I expect them here this morning. I hope you can tear yourself away from over-dramatizing our latest adventures for the populace.”

I scowled at him, but I knew that he was only teasing. At least, I was fairly sure that I knew.

+~+~+

It was barely an hour later that the expected client showed up. I was surprised to find that it was none other than Miss Florence Mallilee.

“Greetings, madam”, Sherlock said as he showed her to the fireside chair. “I hope that I have not incommoded you by my hasty summons?”

She looked somewhat nervous, I thought. 

“Not at all, sir”, she said. “You did say that you would keep me informed as to any developments in the matter of Mr. de Montfort.”

“Indeed I did”, Sherlock said with a smile. “And there have most definitely been developments.” 

He paused.

“In my line of work, I sometimes have to deal with that most cruel, heartless and vindictive of organizations, the national government”, he began. “This case seemingly began when you informed me of the recent arrival to your area of Mr. Aumary de Montfort, a retired colourman, over whom you had some concerns.”

She nodded.

“More properly”, Sherlock went on, “the case truly begins some months earlier. Anyone who can read a newspaper knows that the British Army is currently fighting a rebellion in the area known as the lower Sudan, north of where the two branches of the great River Nile meet. After several embarrassing setbacks, that campaign seems to be moving towards a successful conclusion that will solidify the British grip on Egypt, much to the annoyance of the French government.”

“However, the area where the river actually divides is as yet unclaimed, and it also happens to lie on an axis between French West Africa and the French Somaliland. If the French could establish themselves there, it would not only cut off British interests in north and south Africa from each other, but it might even allow them to threaten the water supply to British Egypt. So of course the French would be more than a little interested to know precisely where the armies currently finishing off the Mahdists are planning to go next.”

“I do not 'do' politics, sir”, our guest smiled. Sherlock shook his head at her.

“Oh, I rather think you do, Miss Mallilee”, he said, sounding almost playful. “That great tome Who's Who would tell its readers that the commanding officer of the 2nd Dorsetshires is Sir Peter de Montfort, and that his uncle is retired and now living in Paddington. It would be a reasonable assumption that Sir Peter might write to his uncle, and a hope for any French government agent that he might be indiscreet enough to pass on information as to where his unit is going next.”

“I do hope that you are not accusing a British Army officer of treachery”, she said hotly.

“I merely said they might hope for such a thing”, Sherlock pointed out. “I did not say that the hope would be justified. As it happened, it was not.”

“But we saw the letter”, I protested. “Or at least you did.”

“Yes, the letter”, Sherlock smiled. “A very interesting letter. In that part of the world, the paper is very rough, you know. Paper like that can easily trap fibres from the clothes of the person writing on it.”

He stared at our guest meaningfully. She coloured.

“I do not get it”, I said, confused. 

“Sir Peter never wrote a letter to his brother, or at least, nothing about his future plans for his unit”, Sherlock said. “The man is a commanding officer, not a fool. However, he did scheme with his brother to lay a trap for the French. There have been rumours – never proven – that our allies were providing covert help to the Mahdist rebels, and doubtless Sir Peter saw an excellent way to divert French efforts elsewhere.”

“You may remember the Heligoland case, Watson, and the subsequent exchange of that island to Germany in return for lands in east Africa. That would be the natural target for any British advance, sealing off French Somaliland from the French Kongo. The French know that we have more men in the area – but if they think that the bulk of those men are to be withdraw in a drive to strengthen Egypt's western borders, then they will risk a dash across Africa to unite their territories and 'block us in'.”

“They want a conflict?” I asked, shocked.

“They want a confrontation”, Sherlock corrected. “The French will be expecting that, at worst, their men will come up against a British force still smaller than their own combined strength. If they come up against one far larger, they will have no choice but to back down. The loss of face will be considerable, but there is no alternative.”

It still seemed risky to me. 

“Mr. Aumary de Montfort brought home several sheets of army paper, and planned to write a fake letter which would lead the French astray if they ever got hold of it. It could not be done immediately, as it would only make sense if it referenced the date of a British victory over the Mahdists. I am not a betting man, but I would wager that this whole thing has the backing of the War Office. Naturally they would not tell anyone else in the government, which was why poor Bacchus was having a panic-attack earlier. However, the shooting incident led to Mr. de Montfort being unable to write properly, so he obtained the services of a certain lady in a mauve dress, two fibres of which became caught in the poor-quality paper. It was that lady's ill-luck that she had already mentioned her concerns about the fellow to a consulting detective, who pursued the case very thoroughly.”

I looked at Miss Mallilee in admiration.

“Aumary asked me to write the letter for him, and told me everything”, Miss Mallilee said stoutly. “And I would do it all again, for my country, if I had to.”

I had no doubt that she would.

+~+~+

Postscriptum: It should be added that, as Sherlock had predicted, two French armies were already en route to meet in the southern Sudan, at the small village of Fashoda, although only one would make it. That move would spark a diplomatic incident which would also include our next case, and prove once more – as if we needed proof - that governments of any hue could never be trusted.

+~+~+

In the last of our Egyptian adventures that did not involve going to Egypt, Egypt comes to England. Or not..


End file.
